


And So we Ran off Together, Into that Harsh and Beautiful World

by revolutionaryfury



Series: The Lovely Misfits [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: A lot of them - Freeform, Age Gap in a Relationship, Angst out the wazoo, Combeferre is Robin Hood, Decemberists Lyrics, Drug Dealer!Bossuet, Drug Dealer!Joly, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Jehan is morose and scary, M/M, Mama!Ferre, Multi, Neurotic!Feuilly, Pool halls, Prostitute!Courfeyrac, Prostitute!Jehan, Prostitution, Runaway!Enjolras, Runaway!Grantaire, Runaways AU, like seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:13:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionaryfury/pseuds/revolutionaryfury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The two boys donned their blue raincoats, tying up their ratty Chuck Taylor high-tops. One shoved a stained green beanie over his wild black curls. The other secured his blonde ponytail inside a newsie cap. ("If they see my hair, they'll give me grief about it, R. It's easier this way." "But I like your hair, Apollo." "So do I, but I'm doing this so I don't get beat up.") The boy with the green beanie picked up a duffel bag and slung it across his body, grinning at the blonde boy, who put on a red backpack that was more duct tape than fabric.</p><p>"And away they went."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So we Ran off Together, Into that Harsh and Beautiful World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



_In matching blue raincoats,_

_Our shoes were our showboats,_

_We kicked around._

The two boys donned their blue raincoats, tying up their ratty Chuck Taylor high-tops. One shoved a stained green beanie over his wild black curls. The other secured his blonde ponytail inside a newsie cap. ("If they see my hair, they'll give me grief about it, R. It's easier this way." "But I like your hair, Apollo." "So do I, but I'm doing this so I don't get beat up.") The boy with the green beanie picked up a duffel bag and slung it across his body, grinning at the blonde boy, who put on a red backpack that was more duct tape than fabric.

They exited the large, cookie-cutter McMansion, Grantaire kicking through puddles and trying to splash Enjolras, and Enjolras decidedly ignoring his partner in crime until the constant splashes began to get irritating.

"Grantaire, we're wearing raincoats. The point is so that we don't get wet. If we get wet, we'll get colds, and if we get colds, we'll need medicine. And if we need medicine, we'll have to go back. Do you wanna go back?" Enjolras said with a glare.

Grantaire's face paled. "No. I can't ever go back to that place." They continued walking in silence for a while, Grantaire's demons haunting him.

"R…I'm sorry," Enjolras said quietly when the usually talkative boy had been silent for a full five minutes. "That wasn't an okay thing to say."

Grantaire looked up with a weak smile. "S'fine," he chuckled, trying to brush it off. "Don't worry about it, 'Pollo."

He didn't kick through the puddles anymore.

XXX

_From stairway to station,_

_We made a sensation_

_With the gadabout crowd._

Their lives as runaways went well for a while. They spent their days roaming the city – and Lord, was it a huge city. They found a horse that had run away from one of the carriage tours and rode it through Central Park, whooping like cowboys. They stood outside of the theatres, pretending to actors and fooling people into actually asking for their autographs. They ran through the subway tunnels in the middle of the night, screaming obscene words just for their amusement.

Grantaire lounged in stairways, looking for all the world like a lazy jungle cat. It was how he met a half-crazed, grumpy, people-loving starving artist named Feuilly. A mountain ("R, don't stereotype people because of their bodies." "No, I'm serious. He's literally a mountain.") came with Feuilly like a package deal. His name was Vic Bahorel, but said if you called him Vic – or God forbid – Victor, he would flay you. Eventually, they made friends with a whole gadabout group – Courf the sparkling-eyed, cheerful prostitute; Joly the obsessive-compulsive, anxiety-ridden hypochondriac drug dealer; his really unlucky but scarily happy partner Bossuet; Jehan the beautiful yet tortured poet, who also had prostitution as a side job; and Combeferre, the only one of them with an actual house. They called him "Mama 'Ferre." He was a lawyer-turned-medic-turned-accountant-turned-corrupt-Robin-Hood-style-banker.

They were misfits, ragtag. A messed up family. Demons haunted the gentle smile of Jehan, the blithe grin of Courf, and, more reasonably, the I'm-about-to-have-a-panic-attack smile of Joly. Dark shadows gathered under the eyes of Combeferre, who bent over backwards to care for his motley crew. The perpetual frowns of Feuilly and Bahorel deepened when they brought in a sixteen-year-old abuse case named 'Ponine. And soon after her, a cheerful, unabashed sinner named Musichetta.

"Any more girls and this'll become a cheerleader squad," Bahorel grumbled, to which Jehan responded with a quick, angry, "Misogynist!" It was one of his bad days, when he quoted Poe and muttered Evanescence lyrics.

XXX

_And oh, what a bargain,_

_We're two easy targets_

_For the old men at the off-tracks,_

_Who've paid in palaver_

_And crumpled old dollars,_

_Which we squirreled away_

_In our rat-trap hotel by the freeway._

_And we slept in Sundays._

Jehan and Courf often came home with wrinkled dollar bills clutched in their fists and tight, sad smiles. The crumpled bills were collected in a huge plastic pickle tub that Bossuet had rescued from a Dumpster. Eventually, they began to pile up with the help of Joly and occasionally Combeferre. Bahorel wasn't much help – he was more in the "Can't-I-just-beat-up-a-tourist-and-steal-their-wallet?" mindset. Feuilly was getting too neurotic to be of any help whatsoever. He had developed a habit of the shakes – even worse than Joly. The only thing would calm him was a cigarette, and those were meager already. Eventually, though, they had enough money to rent a room in a disgusting hotel by the freeway. It was out of the city, which was a bonus to some and loss to others: Grantaire loved the wild spirit, and Enjolras thankful to be away from it.

They allowed Feuilly and Joly one of the beds and gave Courf and Jehan the other. The first two were getting so anxiety-ridden that the others wanted to treat them as well as they could. And the latter two had earned most of the money, so it was only fair that they got a real bed. Bahorel crashed in the (yellowing) bathtub, Bossuet slept on the floor next to Joly, their hands entwined, and Musichetta had taken to curling up with Bossuet. 'Ponine would convince Bahorel to scoot over and make room for her in the tub. Grantaire and Enjolras slept in a heap on the floor. Combeferre lived in his house. On Sunday, they slept till noon.

XXX

_Your parents were anxious;_

_Your cool was contagious_

_At the old school._

_You left without leaving a note_

_For your grieving, sweet mother_

_While your brother was so cruel._

Grantaire had been one of those bad ass misfit types at his and Enjolras's old school. He didn't care about anyone but "his Apollo." He did everything he wasn't supposed to, and had no regard for others. His mother still retained the feeble hope that he would shape up and "be a good boy." His mother was a good woman, and in all honesty he actually did hate to disappoint her. She was sweet, and always tried to make light of terrible situations – from her alcoholic bastard of a husband smacking her around, to her eldest son still living at home and seeming to make it the sole purpose of his life to make his younger brother miserable.

When Grantaire had decided to run away with Enjolras, he had actually tried to leave a note. "Sorry, Mom, but I ran away" didn't really seem to cut it, though, so he just left.

XXX

_And here in the alleys,_

_Your spirits were rallied_

_As you learned quick to_

_Make a fast buck._

_In bathrooms and barrooms,_

_And dumpsters and heirlooms._

_We bit our tongues,_

_Sucked our lips into our lungs_

_'Till we were falling._

_Such was our calling._

It seemed as if Grantaire and Enjolras had finally found their niche in Les Amis – a sarcastic name given to them by a depressed Jehan one day. They were the Jacks of all trades; the "we-can-just-do-everything-if-we're-not-good-at-any-particular-thing" guys. They hooked up with lonely girls, salvaged what they could from dumpsters and trash heaps, and, on occasion, stole valuables from antique stores and then sold them right back to the same unsuspecting owners. ("I don't like doing this, R. It's dishonest." "Apollo, if they can't even keep track of their own merchandise, I'd say they deserved it. I mean, any fool could see that I just sold him his own stuff." "Still, though…" "It gets easier when you're starving.")

XXX

_And here in our hollow,_

_We fuse like a family._

_But I will not mourn for you._

_So take up your makeup,_

_And pocket your pills away._

_We're kings among runaways._

_We're down_

_On the bus mall._

In Combeferre's house, The Hollow, as they called it, it seemed as if a magnet drew them together. 'Ponine and 'Chetta liked sitting back to back; Joly and Bossuet liked to hold hands and be near Musichetta at all times; Enjolras and Grantaire were usually near each other; Bahorel was the only one who could calm Feuilly down; Feuilly liked to be with Grantaire so they could mock the world together; Enjolras liked to be near Combeferre so they could talk philosophy; Combeferre edged toward Eponine shyly; Bahorel liked to be near her too so they could make fun of their friends; Jehan liked to be alone; Courf liked to be with Jehan.

They were a tangle of limbs.

It was during these times when they could just forget the world. That troublesome, terrible, amazing, gritty, fantastic, depressing world. When Joly could put his powders and pills and plants away, when Courf and Jehan could stow away their makeup for another time, when Feuilly could calm down and Jehan and 'Ponine could crack a smile for once.

They were a family.

XXX

_Among all the urchins and old Chinese merchants_

_Of the old town,_

_We reigned at the pool hall_

_With one iron cue ball,_

_And never let the bastards get us down._

They discovered that Grantaire could pull a good hustle now and again, and Enjolras was decent at it himself. They defeated men and women in a dusty old pool hall, kings of it. Money began to flow in after that, and they began to stay in the rat-trap hotel whenever they weren't at The Hollow. People talked, accusing R and "his Apollo" of hustling (which was true), being criminals (also true) and…being gay. (Which was...kind of true. At least on Grantaire's part. He had been in love with Enjolras since he was ten.)

XXX

_And we laughed off the quick tricks,_

_Of the old men with limp dicks,_

_On the colonnade of the waterfront park._

_As four in the morning_

_Came on cold and boring,_

_We huddled close_

_In the bus stop enclosure enfolding,_

_Our hands tightly holding._

It was a bad day for all of them – Jehan had been smacked around by a "customer" and had all but exploded at Courf for trying to help him. "I'm not some delicate flower!" he'd screamed. "Stop trying to protect me or shield me or whatever it is you're doing! I DON'T NEED YOUR HELP!"

"Jehan," Courf had whispered, "I'm trying to help you because I care about you."

"NO!" Jehan had screamed again. "JUST STOP!"

Joly had had a severe anxiety attack, freaking out on both Bossuet and 'Chetta when they tried to help him. This had caused Feuilly to start shaking; the most violent tremors he had had yet. He trembled and quailed, not even accepting the last cigarette. He'd tried, but his shaking had knocked the box out of Bahorel's hand. He was now reduced to a half-mad, quivering ball of nerves in Bahorel's arms.

'Ponine and Combeferre had disappeared off somewhere, and nobody could find them. It was dark and dismal, a freezing rain falling upon Manhattan.

Enjolras had slipped out, and Grantaire – as always – had followed. He had found his Apollo curled up in a bus stop enclosure, wearing the same stupid raincoat that he had worn the day they ran away. "R?" he asked.

"Apollo." Grantaire scooted in beside Enjolras. "It's four in the morning, Apollo. It's cold. Come back inside. It's tense, but it's warm. You'll catch your death out here." He realized that he had reached for Enjolras's hand, and the two looked surprised, but gripped each other's hands like it was the last thing they would ever do.

"Thank you," Enjolras whispered.

XXX

_But here in our hollow we fuse like a family,_   
_But I will not mourn for you._   
_So take up your makeup_   
_And pocket your pills away._   
_We're kings among runaways_   
_On the bus mall._   
_We're down_   
_On the bus mall._   
_We're down_   
_On the bus mall._   
_Down on the bus mall._   
_Oh ooh oh._

They were all messed up. No one could piece them back together. Prostitutes, sinners, drug dealers. Depressing and neurotic and anxiety-ridden. In love and in hate. But they were a family. And that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD. YOU GUYS. SOMEONE DID SOME FANART FOR MY FANFICTION OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO CRY RIGHT NOW. OKAY, MAYBE NOT BUT STILL. I FEEL SO HONORED! <3
> 
>  
> 
> http://fetche-lavache.tumblr.com/image/62387675894


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